THE TRAGEDY OF CHRISTOPHER LOVE AT TOWER HILL August 22. 1651.  

Prologue.  

NEw from a slaughtered Monarchs hearse I come,  
A mourner to a murdered Prophet's tomb:  
Pardon, Great Charles his Ghost, my Muse had stood  
Yet three years longer, till sh''ve wept a flood;  
Too mean a Sacrifice for royal Blood.  
But 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Heaven do by Thunder call  
For her attendance at Love's funeral.  
Forgive Great Sir, this sacrilege in me,  
The 〈◊〉 Tear he must have, it is his Fee;  
'Tis due to him, and yet 'tis stolen from Thee.    

ARGUMENT.  

'Twas when the raging Dog did rule the Skies,  
And with his Scorching face did tyrannize,  
When cruel Cromwell, whelp of that mad Star,  
But sure more firery than his sire by far;  
Had dried the Northern Fife, and with his heat  
Put frozen Scotland in a Bloody sweat:  
When he had Conquered, and his furious train  
Had chased the North-Bear, and pursued Charles' wain  
Into the English Orb; then 'twas thy Fate  
(Sweet Love) to be a present for our State.  
A greater Sacrifice there could not come,  
Than a Divine to bleed his welcome home  
For He, and Herod, think no dish so good,  
As a John Baptists Head served up in blood.    

ACT I.  

The Philistines are set in their High Court,  
And Love, like Samson's, fetched to make them sport:  
Unto the Stake the smiling Prisoner's brought,  
Not to be tried, but baited, most men thought;  
Monsters, like men, must worry him: and thus  
He fights with Beasts, like Paul at Ephesus.  
Adam's, Far and Huntington, with all the pack  
Of foisting Hounds were set upon his back.  
Prideaux and Keeble stands and cries A'loe;  
It was a full Cry, and it would not do.  
Oh how he foiled them, standerss-by did swear,  
That he the Judge, and they the traitors were:  
For there he proved, although he seemed a lamb,  
Stout, like a lion, from whose Den he came!    

ACT II.  

It is Decreed; nor shall thy Worth, dear Love,  
Resist their Vows, nor their revenge remove.  
Though prayers were joined to prayers, & tears to tears,  
No softness in their Rocky hearts appears;  
Nor Heaven nor Earth abate their fury can,  
But they will have thy Head, thy Head, good Man.  
Sure some She sectary longed, and in haste  
Must try how Presbyterian Blood did taste.  
'Tis fit she have the best, and therefore thine,  
Thine must be broached, blessed Saint, its drink Divine.  
No sooner was the dreadful Sentence read,  
The Prisoner straight bowed his condemned Head:  
And by that humble posture told them all,  
It was an Head that did not fear a fall.    

ACT III.  

And now I wish the fatal stroke were given;  
I'm sure our Martyr longs to be in Heaven,  
And Heaven to have him there; one moment's blow  
Makes him triumphant; but here comes his woe,  
His enemies will grant a month's suspense  
If't be but for the nonce to keep him thence:  
And that he may tread in his saviour's ways,  
He shall be tempted too, his forty days:  
And with such baits too, cast thyself but down,  
Fall, and but worship, and your life's your own.  
Thus cried his Enemies, and 'twas their pride  
To wound his Body, and his Soul beside.  
One plot they have more, when their other fail,  
If Devils cannot, disciples may prevail.  
Let's tempt him by his friends, make Peter cry  
Good Master spare thyself, and do not die.  
One friend entreats, a second weeps, a third  
Cries your Petition wants the other word:  
I'll write it for you, saith a fourth; your life,  
Your life Sir, cries a fift; pity your wife,  
And the Babe in her: Thus this Diamond's cut,  
By Diamonds only, and to terror put.  
Me thinks I hear him still, you wounding heart;  
Good friends forbear, for every word's a dart:  
'Tis cruel pity, this I do profess,  
You'd love me more, if you did love me less:  
Friends, Children, Wife, Life, all are dear I know,  
But all's too dear, if I should buy them so.  
Thus like a Rock that routs the waves he stands,  
And snaps asunder, Sampson-like these bands.    

ACT IV.  

The day is come, the Prisoner longs to go,  
And chides the lingering Sun for tarrying so.  
Which blushing seems to answer from the sky,  
That it was loath to see a Martyr die.  
Me thinks I heard b●headed Saints above  
Call to each other, Sirs, make room for Love.  
Who, when he came to tread the fatal Stage,  
Which proved his glory, and his enemy's rage.  
His blood ne'er run to his Heart, Christ's Blood was there  
Reviving it, his own was all to spare:  
Which rising in his Cheeks, did seem to say,  
Is this the blood you thirst for? Take't I pray.  
Spectators in his looks such life did see,  
That they appeared more like to die than he.  
But oh his speech, methinks I hear it still;  
It ravished Friends, and did his enemies kill:  
His keener words did their sharp Axe exceed,  
That made his head, but he their hearts to bleed:  
Which he concludes with gracious prayer, and so  
The Lamb lay down, and took the butcher's blow:  
His Soul makes Heaven shine brighter by a Star,  
And now we're sure there's one Saint Christopher.    

ACT V.  

Love lies a-bleeding, and the world shall see  
Heaven Act a part in this black tragedy.  
The Sun no sooner spied the Head o'th' floor,  
But he pulled in his own, and looked no more:  
The Clouds which scattered, and in colours were,  
Met all together, and in black appear:  
Lightnings, which filled the air with Blazing light,  
Did serve for Torches all that dismal night:  
In which, and all next day for many hours,  
Heaven groaned in Thunder, and did weep in showers.  
Nor do I wonder that God thundered so  
When his Bonarges murdered lay below:  
Witnesses trembled, Prideaux, Bradshaw, Keeble,  
And all the guilty Court looked pale and feeble.  
Timorous jenkin's, and cold-hearted Drake  
Hold out, you need no base Petitions make:  
Your enemies thus thunderstruck no doubt,  
Will be beholding to you to go out.  
But if you will Recant, now thundering Heaven  
Such approbation to love's Cause hath given.  
I'll add but this; Your Consciences, perhaps,  
Ere long, shall feel far greater thunderclaps.    

Epilogue.  

But stay, my Muse grows fearful too, and must  
Beg that these Lines be buried with thy dust:  
Shelter, blessed Love, this Verse within thy shroud,  
For none but Heaven dares takes thy part aloud.  
The Author begs this, lest if he be known,  
Whilst he bewails thy Head, he lose his own.    
FINIS.